Faye Sizemore

LITTLE GIRL GROWN

As a child…
I would lay in an overstuffed chair
with my back against one arm
and my legs and feet
hanging over the other
… hoping I wouldn’t be caught
by my mother…
I’d lie there
and read by the hour
My heroes were King Arthur
and such
… back when knighthood
was in flower
My brave paper knights
would fight and die
and I… the child…
never thought to ask why
The stories
of their deeds
were my most exciting reads
Their deaths seemed
to border upon magic
Grown old now…
my feet are upon the ground
and that real soldiers are dying
is so tragic…
for now in my mind
there does abound
a belated… strangled cry…
unvoiced long ago…
of ‘Why…
Why’…